


Writer's Block

by snowlandsontop



Category: Stardew Valley (Video Game)
Genre: Awkward Crush, Complete, Crushes, Elliott is v awkward, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fluff, Kissing, More tags in the future, Romance, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:27:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24993052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowlandsontop/pseuds/snowlandsontop
Summary: "Who did she think she was, inspiring him like this? A muse?"Elliott has trouble writing when a new farmer moves to Pelican Town.
Relationships: Elliott/Female Player (Stardew Valley), Elliott/Player (Stardew Valley)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 126





	1. Chapter 1

…It was a dark and stormy night?

Elliott swallowed the taste of bile in the back of his throat as he watched the words scratch under his pencil. He almost wanted to cry looking at them. The eraser of his pencil was dull, dirtied pink shavings dusted over his desk and forearms. His paper was gray and thin, muddied with the ghosts of past expositions. If he erased the words the paper would surely tear in half. 

Simply nothing would travel from his brain and stick to the paper properly. Like throwing a dull dart at a board. It was frustrating.

A crack of thunder from outside made him twitch, and he pressed his pencil into the paper too hard. The crack of lead was deafening in the empty cabin. He watched the black point crumple, spraying dust onto the paper and his hand.

No eraser, now no tip. He hurled the useless stick at the wall, taking little satisfaction as it giddily bounced and landed in his lap. He tossed it under his desk, along with the other pencils he had ruined that day.

Elliott dropped his head to his desk and closed his eyes, shoulders tensed and stomach knotted. Even the inky purple of the backs of his eyelids provided no inspiration. He felt desolately uncreative. If only he could find some sort of spark.

Another crack of thunder made him jolt. It certainly was a dark and stormy night. He’d never liked thunderstorms. Maybe that was it, an emotion connected to an event. Perhaps the storm would make him feel something, and inspire his writing.

Elliott pushed away from his desk, his chair scraping loudly on the worn floors. He had to get that fixed soon, but money was much too tight. Not that he’d ever admit that to anyone.

He rose, walked to the window, and pushed back the curtains. 

Elliott gazed through the glass. Heavy black clouds sprawled across the sky, blocking the light of the moon. A haze of rain pummeled the ground; thick, dark, poisonous looking. The wetness drained color from the sea, frothy white turning inky. Once white sand was now gray. The sound of rain hitting the roof of his cottage was now suffocating, so loud it had passed silently by his ears before he made a point to listen to it.

He pushed the window open and the noise grew much louder, drowning the words in his head that already struggled to form a sentence. Elliott poked his head outside, tasting the muggy air. Water heavied his hair and plastered it in strands against his face. It seemed to weigh down his thoughts, as well, an anchor dragging them down the black sea. 

Elliott sighed, the noise small in his surroundings. He wasn’t getting anywhere doing this. He reached to close the window, and stopped when a wet pattering sound caught his attention. It grew closer, and it became apparent that the noise was footsteps, squelching and quick in the wet sand. Elliott was curious to see who was strange enough to be out at this hour, in this weather, and he craned his neck towards them.

The farmer hurried down a path to the beach, absolutely drenched but seeming to pay no mind. She was carrying a fishing pole and a box of bait, both blindingly pink in the dreary air. Elliott watched as she sat on the edge of the dock, affixed a piece of bait to her rod, then cast a line.

The quiet whir of the line and colorful lure should have begged his eyes to follow where she had cast, but they didn’t. He continued to look at her. Her slouched back and bucket hat reminded Elliott of an old, sea worn fisherman, hardened by storms and difficult catches. However, she kicked her dangling legs, splashing already gusty water, like a child that didn’t quite know what they were doing. She was strange, and her strangeness was inspiring.

Elliott felt a smile spread across his lips. Words were clicking together into coherency in his brain, ideas blossoming into bright colors. Now, if only he could reach for a new pencil and paper without taking his eyes off of her… 

The farmer’s back straightened. She started to turn towards him and Elliott’s heart couldn’t decide whether to beat in double time or stop completely. She turned fully and gave Elliott a wave with her free hand, grin large and bright in the gray air.

Elliott slammed his window shut with a clang and drew back the curtains. He stared at the pattern on them as he caught his breath. Wait, why was he breathing so hard? He hadn’t done any exercise. He brought a hand to his face and found it warm and wet. He was sweating looking at her, too? No, the wetness was from the rain outside, but that didn’t excuse how flushed he was.

Elliott walked to his bed and sat heavily on it. It groaned in annoyance as it accommodated for his weight, and Elliott wanted to groan with it. The puzzle of words and colors and ideas had fallen apart again, its pieces fuzzy and gray and impossible to put back together again. 

Ever since the farmer had moved into the old farm he’d felt like this. Dull without her and near manic with inspiration when he saw her. The problem was, he hadn’t spoken a word to her yet. It was, for lack of a better term, too scary. Sadly, he couldn’t keep this stalker act up for much longer without her getting suspicious.

Elliott slumped over in defeat and pressed his face into a pillow. If he was acting this flustered while watching her from afar, who knew how he’d act if he attempted to get near her? It annoyed him. Who did she think she was, inspiring him like this? A muse?


	2. Chapter 2

“… a muse?” Shane asked around the rim of his beer glass, lifting an eyebrow.

His tone was unimpressed, and near rude, but Elliott didn’t mind. Their friendship… no, acquaintanceship, was defined by Shane acting that way towards him. When Elliott could afford going to the saloon, he’d end up talking to Shane. Elliott’s colorful conversation starters and topics were muddied by Shane’s pessimism, but Elliott had to admit, the back and forth kept him grounded. Sometimes he needed someone realistic near him.

Elliott nodded fervently. He drummed nervous fingers on the saloon counter. He didn’t have a drink tonight, half because he couldn’t afford it, and half because he wanted a clear head if he somehow managed to write once he got home. “Yes, she’s like a muse.”

Shane placed his glass on the counter. “So, let me get this straight,” he sighed. “Last night, you had trouble writing, and you went to the window to look at the rain. The farmer showed up, you started staring. She turned around, and you fled.”

“Mhm.”

“And how many times has this sort of thing happened?” asked Shane.

Elliott rubbed his temple with his hand. “Today is the first of Summer, so… six or seven?” He avoided Shane’s eyes. “Eight if you include the time she was chopping down a tree and I hid in a bush,” he added.

Shane knit his eyebrows together. “Why would I not include that time?”

“Good point,” admitted Elliott.

Shane took a long swig of his beer. “And why isn’t this considered stalking?”

Elliott gave a dramatic shrug. “Because it’s necessary? I haven’t been able to think properly since she moved here. Ever since I saw her talking to Willy on the second of Spring, all other modes of inspiration have failed me. The sky looks dull, birds seem to sing less. I can’t write without her. My work is sluggish now.”

Shane scratched his head. “So… it’s like stalking with a work visa?”

Elliott breathed to retort, but relaxed and heaved a woeful sigh. “I suppose it’s like that. It’s as if she cursed me. I can’t keep going like this.”

Shane nodded at Elliott's dramatics and spoke slowly. “Call me crazy… but maybe the cure for all of this is to get to know her. If you became friends, you could be around her without hiding in bushes. You know, like a normal person?”

Elliott rested his head in his hands and stared at the counter top. “I knew you were going to say that.”

“So, why don’t you do it?”

Elliott slid a hand in front of his mouth and mumbled something incoherent.

Shane rolled his eyes. “What? Speak up.”

Elliott mumbled louder.

“Elliott, I still can’t hear you.”

“I’m scared! Okay?” Elliott exclaimed, punctuating his words by slamming his palms on the table. His outburst was loud, and followed by the quieting of patrons’ conversations around them. Elliott’s face burned as he felt their eyes on him. Jukebox music suddenly escaped the background, being the only noise in the room. Its happy tune seemed to mock him.

Shane looked taken aback for a moment, then his features settled into a cool smile. He graciously waited for others’ conversations to filter in again before speaking. “You’re afraid of her?” he asked with a laugh. “Why?”

Elliott ran a hand through his hair. “It’s not that. I have a reputation to uphold.” Shane snorted at his words, but Elliott continued. “It’s Summer! I’ve already gone too long without talking to her. If her first impression of me is a flustered, awkward, rudely late stalker, I don’t know what I’d do with myself.”

Shane hummed, his eyes wandering on something behind Elliott. “You’re just going to have to rip off the bandage. The longer you wait, the worse it’s going to seem.”

Shane’s words were painfully sensible, but Elliott’s body relaxed a bit at them. Shane was right. “That’s… good advice. Thanks, Shane.”

Shane scrunched his nose, obviously uncomfortable with the praise. “Yeah, whatever. When I said rip off the bandage, I really meant it. The farmer just walked into the saloon.”

If Elliott had any alcohol in his system he surely would have vomited it then. “What? What am I supposed to do?” Elliott hissed, keeping his eyes on Shane, hoping the back of his head was inconspicuous.

Shane breathed to say something, but Elliott succumbed to curiosity embarrassingly quickly and whipped his head to look behind him.

The farmer was standing at Lewis and Marnie’s table, bending at the waist with her hands splayed on top of it. With her muddy boots and overalls, she should have felt out of place, but her wide smile and confident stance said otherwise. Elliott couldn’t make out their conversation, but Lewis and Marnie’s loud laughter at something the farmer had said pierced through, and made Elliott’s head feel woozy. She was funny. Of course she was funny. So many interesting traits wrapped up into one person, she seemed to glow, making Elliott feel warm and nourishing blossoming ideas in his mind.

After waving goodbye to Lewis and Marnie, the farmer turned to leave the saloon. Elliott sighed at the sound of the door closing behind her, partly in relief that she hadn’t seen him, but mostly in disappointment that her glow was gone. The words she had tended to, that were so close to reaching his hands, had now crumbled into dust between his fingers.

Shane let out a low whistle. “She’s already got you whipped and you haven’t even met her. That’s impressive.”

Elliott groaned and let his face fall to the counter top, cringing at the stickiness of the wood, the sound of Shane’s laughter above him, and the empty feeling in his chest. He could already tell that he wasn’t going to be able to write tonight. He really _was _going to have to rip the bandage off.__


	3. Chapter 3

Elliott studied his reflection in his bathroom mirror. Hair properly tousled, jacket ironed, a nice balance between being neat, but not uptight. He looked good, but not good enough. It seemed he’d never look good enough for this.

He checked his watch. 4:30. He embarrassingly knew that the farmer should be at Pierre’s by now. 

Elliott gripped the sides of the sink and bore his eyes into the ones reflecting back to him. How would he greet her? He wasn’t even sure she knew his name yet, and why would she? Disordered fragments of greetings that had been drilled into his head since he was a child pummeled the inside of his skull, impossible to mold into a proper sentence. He had to talk to her, he was having trouble even imagining what their conversation would look like. He gripped the sides of the sink tighter, as if grounding himself from floating into the oblivion alongside his creative thoughts.

Elliott heard a knock at his door and watched his reflection frown. He wasn’t expecting any visitors. Most people left him to his hermit lifestyle, anyways. Elliott walked to the door. Willy must need something. He opened the door and his eyes caught on the lure of a fishing pole the person in front of him was holding. Ah, yes, so it was Willy. Wait… Willy didn’t own a bright pink fishing lure. The only time he’d seen such a blatant color was… 

Elliott’s breath caught in his throat. His tunnel vision widened and he had to resist the urge to slam the door shut when he realized who was standing in front of him.

The farmer was wearing her bucket hat again, dry this time. She had swapped her usual overalls for a tee shirt and shorts, but her muddy boots stayed. Again, she seemed so comfortable with things out of place. She had a pleasant smile on her face, the afternoon sun behind her framing her body. She seemed to exude that warmth from before, nourishing words into coherency in his brain.

It was at this point Elliott remembered that people usually greet each other when they meet. His words tripped over his tongue as he spoke, soliloquies translated through his mouth turning to stammers. “I, uh. Hi. I’m Elliott.”

He stuck his hand out for a shake, a bit too forcefully. The farmer took it. Her hands were calloused, but she shook softly. She said her name, and continued to speak, somehow with complete normalcy. Like she didn’t realize how much this felt like a life event for Elliott.

“I moved into the old farm in the beginning of Spring,” she said, fiddling with the string on her fishing rod. Her voice sounded like it was from the city, like Elliott’s. “I don’t think I’ve properly met you yet.”

Despite the words he couldn’t seem to force out before, Elliott had to bite his tongue to keep from admitting that he’d seen her since she’d moved in. Yoba, what was wrong with him? It was as though she’d cursed currents of words to flow through his brain, but only icy, awkward chunks to come out of his mouth.

He matched her fidgety energy and pulled at the cuff of his sleeve. “It’s… really nice to meet you now.” He attempted to propel the conversation. “So, you farm?” he asked, cringing at the words as soon as they slipped out of his mouth.

The farmer tilted her head to the side, the sun behind her peeking out and temporarily blinding Elliott, before she tilted it up again and laughed. “Yes, I farm.”

“How is that going?”

The farmer’s face lit up at the question, though her answer wasn’t cheerful. “It’s fine. Kinda hard,” she said. She propped her rod on the door frame, took off her backpack, and started fishing through it. “Speaking of that, I got a larger coop for my ducks yesterday. Seems like they dropped me one of these babies in thanks.”

The farmer pulled a large duck feather out of her bag and held it in front of her. She twirled it in her fingers, and the light from behind her bounced off of it, a slick kaleidoscope of green and blue. 

“It’s beautiful,” Elliott said.

“It’s for you,” the farmer replied.

Elliott’s brain somehow seemed to short circuit even more. He took the feather with a shaky hand. “Me? Why?”

The farmer shrugged, sheepish. “I’ve heard around town that you like them.”

Elliott’s face warmed. Had she been thinking about him when he’d been thinking about her? He had plenty he wanted to say about this, but knew he wouldn’t be able to vocalize it around her. The duck feather was a nice statement, though. Maybe he could give her something to summarize his thoughts without saying anything.

He thought of the vase of roses he kept on his writing desk.

“One moment,” he said to her, before rushing to his desk and placing the duck feather on it. He took a rose out of the vase, adrenaline muffling the pain in his palm at its thorns.

As he was walking back to the farmer, he realized that he probably needed an excuse to be giving a rose to a girl he just met.

“It’s, um, wilting, I think,” said Elliott, holding the rose out to her. “Maybe you could take it to the farm. Nurse it back to health.”

The farmer smiled and took the rose from his hand. “I’ll be sure to do that.” She gently placed the flower in her backpack. “I just realized, I never asked what you do.”

Elliott stuck his hands in his pockets and rolled back on his heels. “Me? Oh, I’m a writer. I write. Things.” The corner of the farmer’s mouth twitched at his awkwardness, and it made his heart flutter. He wanted to know more about her. “What kind of books do you like?”

The farmer heaved her backpack over her shoulder and began to pick up her fishing rod, quietly pondering over the question. Once she seemed set to leave, she turned fully towards him.

“I like romance, Elliott,” she grinned, then turned and sped off towards town. 

Elliott closed the door and took a deep breath. He felt as though he’d ran a marathon, but that hadn’t gone badly. He walked towards his desk and picked up the duck feather. No, in fact, that had gone quite well.

He ran a finger down the fatty coating of the feather. Its smoothness made him think of water, of streams, and the heavy current of ideas began to flow through his mind again.

Elliott pulled his chair back and sat on it, not even minding the scraping on the floor. He was going to be able to write today. Maybe he’d add an element of romance to his book.


	4. Chapter 4

Elliott leaned on the side of his cabin, sand grainy and hot on the soles of his feet. The wood on his back was rough and splintery on his bare skin. The sun was cruel that day, high in the sky and beaming relentlessly, splashing redness and freckles on Elliott’s face and shoulders.

Luau music filtered softly between the noises of conversations around him. Elliott never liked the Luau much. It was loud and messy. It occurred directly outside of his house, so he felt obligated to attend. He felt as though he could be spending his time doing more important things, such as reading, or finishing his book.

Elliott sighed and crossed his arms on his bare chest, the stickiness of his skin uncomfortable. His book. He was making quick progress since he and the farmer had officially met. He still had trouble finding inspiration outside of her, but talking around her came easier now. They often spoke when they crossed paths, though Elliott had to admit he often planned his day around bumping into her. Her presence was less overwhelming, but he still was impressed by the way each of her actions, no matter how mundane, made sentences and ideas bloom in his mind. She often gave him gifts, a pomegranate here, another duck feather there. He cherished them, and they provided bouts of creativity.

Elliott heard a voice call his name, and he turned his head towards it. He smiled when he saw the farmer, waving at him from across the bridge. She sat on the sand, her bare feet in the shallow water, one hand tugging on the string of the bucket hat he’d rarely seen her without. He noticed she was wearing a bathing suit, and he became overly aware that he was wearing swim trunks as well. He pushed the nervous thought out of his mind and walked towards her, delighted to see her again and delighted to get away from the lot of people on the main beach.

The farmer smiled and tilted her face upwards as he approached her. She squinted at the sun in her eyes and patted the sand next to her. “Sit with me.”

Elliott obliged. He watched the tide lap over his feet, cool and fizzing. Waves roared and crashed in the distance. Each time the water leaned into him, he felt like leaning closer to the farmer, the hissing sound of the sea touching sand blocking out thoughts that told him not to. But, as soon as the tide came in, it went, washing away the want to be nearer to her.

The farmer absently dug a hole in the sand with her finger, gazing over the water at the main party.

“Elliott,” she said. Elliott was happy she wasn’t looking at him as she spoke, as he could barely suppress a grin at the sound of her saying his name. “If you could put anything in the potluck, what would it be?” she asked.

Elliott looked over at the large bowl of soup Marnie was stirring. “That pair of Lewis’s shorts that he seems to lose wherever Marnie is,” he answered.

The farmer whipped her face around and looked at Elliott, her eyes shocked. Elliott began to think that he had let the wrong thing slip out of his mouth, and was about to apologize, when the farmer threw her head back and laughed. It was loud, free and pure, and seemed to soften the harsh sun on Elliott’s skin into warm honey. She clutched her stomach and shook with it, almost looking like she was in pain if Elliott didn’t know better. 

It was impossible not to laugh with her, so Elliott giggled as well. He studied her sunny face, the way her nose scrunched, and the snorts that came out of it. He felt his own face reddening, and wasn’t sure if it was the sun at fault for it. His brain felt as though it were melting, scrambled with ideas for all the ways he could describe her.

The farmer wiped a tear from her eye and raised an eyebrow at Elliott. “What?” she asked, trying, and failing, to replace the mirth in her voice with indignancy. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

The words fell out of Elliott. “You’ve been a source of inspiration for me. For my writing. Ever since you moved to the valley.”

The farmer’s face fell, and Elliott wanted so badly to scoop his statement out of the air and back into his mouth. To delete history. Then, the farmer smiled.

She started to dig into the sand again, avoiding Elliott’s eyes. “You’ve been something similar to me. Farming is… difficult. It’s hard to stay motivated all of the time. I’ve enjoyed spending time with you this Summer. You make things easier.”

Elliott watched the hole that the farmer was digging. She was fidgeting with it so furiously now, Elliott wouldn’t be surprised if she’d dug to the core of the earth in a few minutes. Elliott felt as though his emotions towards her were falling into a hole like that. Untethered, warming as they got deeper, melting into something liquid and intense. The tide rolled in again, further this time.

Elliott stood before he could do something stupid.

He held a hand out to her. “I’m glad that I make things easier for you.”

The farmer took it. “And I’m glad that I make things easier for you,” she smiled, standing up.

____

____

Her words made Elliott’s heart jump, but he was able to respond without stammering. “Shall we?” he said, gesturing towards the potluck.

The farmer laughed. “We shall.”

She continued to hold Elliott’s hand as they crossed the bridge, and did so for the rest of the event.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Elliott is playing in the second half of this chapter is [Tchaikovsky - Waltz of the Flowers](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1aR92yQUS7s). The link I added is a wonderful rendition by Rousseau on YouTube. I highly recommend listening to it as you read! Once you get around 1:50 I promise you'll recognize it ;)

Elliott sat stiffly on the piano bench, back straight, as he had when he was a child performing at recitals. The notes he played were choppy, a bland and unimaginative tune he had memorized from his childhood lessons. It was the only thing he could force out of himself at the moment.

Elliott hadn’t seen the farmer since the Luau. The routes he usually took to see her failed to make them cross paths. He had no idea where she could possibly be. Although he had been living alone for years before she’d moved to the valley, her absence coiled around his chest, loneliness making it difficult to breathe, difficult to think. He supposed she didn’t owe him anything after holding his hand, but it sometimes felt cold with the ghost of her skin. Pomegranate stains on his dress shirts had faded after multiple washes. Her duck feathers sat in a pile at the corner of Elliott’s writing desk, spent and lackluster.

Before she had moved to town, music was one of Elliott’s greatest inspirations. He enjoyed the way it swelled and diminished, creating images in his mind. Now, however, it drew no pictures, and painted no colors.

Elliott stopped playing, shut his eyes, and slammed his palms on the keys. The noise was sour and loud. He kept his hands still and let it ring, savoring the disjointed sound. He was angry. He hadn’t been able to write properly in days, and it was all because of this stupid fixation on the farmer.

A rap on his door cut through the harsh, now fading sound. “Come in,” Elliott said without turning to the door, straining to hear the last pieces of upset in the air. Leah had mentioned visiting him earlier, but he wasn’t expecting her so soon.

The person who had knocked opened the door, and closed it softly behind them. “Hi,” a familiar, city voice said.

Elliott’s eyes sprang open and he turned to look at her. The farmer wore overalls and, inexplicably, flip flops. Her smile was tired and lopsided, and her hat skewed on her head, making her face a group of contrasting angles.

“I’m sorry I haven’t seen you in so long,” she said. “One of my cows gave birth and I’ve been super busy with her and I didn’t even know I had any bulls and,” she took a breath to continue rambling, but Elliott interrupted her.

“Please don’t worry about it,” he heard himself say, still lacking control of his words around her. At least that had been what he was thinking.

The farmer froze for a moment, like she was unused to a forgiving gesture, then gave a relieved smile. “Thank you.” She sighed and leaned against the back of the door. “What were you doing just now?”

Elliott wondered if she had heard him playing from outside of the cabin, and if her question was just a redundant way to start a conversation. He was happy enough to see her that he'd talk about anything. “Playing the piano.”

“Can I listen?”

“Sure,” he said, the word falling out of his mouth before he even thought of it.

He turned on the piano bench and faced the keys. Playing for other people was different. It was much more exposing, and much easier to be cowardly. He readied himself to play the song he had memorized, but hesitated when he heard her flip flops walk to the center of the room. The awkward sound was so blatant in the silent room, in the tense breath he took before he played. It made him smile, remembering that she was there.

Elliott began to play a different song, a more difficult one on the sheet music in front of him. The notes flowed through him and filled the room, colorful and lithe. The tension in his body melted into a cool focus as he played. He felt comfortable, no longer lonely, with the music and the warm presence of the farmer accompanying him.

His rotted floorboards began to creak, and he heard the steps of the farmer’s shoes. Elliott glanced out of the corner of his eye and saw the farmer dancing. Not anything professional, just swaying and stepping and twirling to the music. Elliott continued playing, but he found himself watching her more than the paper in front of him. He began missing notes, the piece turning sloppy, but he didn’t care. He could barely hear the mistakes over the beating of his own heart.

His fingers started to slow, not looking at the sheet music at all now. The jumbled mess of the wrong fingers hitting the wrong keys mirrored the cacophony of words in his head, messy and nonsensical but bursting with emotion. He wanted to say them all to her. Voice everything he made her think, everything he made her feel. 

The piece continued to slow, then stopped, with Elliott completely transfixed in watching her.

The farmer similarly swayed to a stop in her dancing, then gave him a smug smile. “Elliott,” she said, chiding, the sound of his name on her tongue so beautiful he could have cried. She walked and sat on the piano bench next to him, which was small enough to make their legs touch. She leaned her face close to his, the warmth of her body soothing, and very much apparent to Elliott.

“Am I distracting you?” said the farmer, her voice goading. She was close enough that Elliott could feel the heat of her breath on his lips. It smelled like pomegranates. Another lovely trait he could add to a character in his book. Elliott thought of the hole she had dug at the Luau. His feelings towards her were plummeting into the earth like before, heating in intensity. Melting. Falling. This time he didn’t catch them.

He closed the gap between them and slammed his mouth into hers. The farmer responded, parting her lips, and Elliott delved his tongue between them. The disordered words in Elliott’s mind exploded, loud enough that he was able to ignore it, like the sound of rain before you make a point to listen to it. The last vice of loneliness around Elliott's chest loosened into nothing. His hands shook with emotion as he brought them up to hold her face. The kiss was sloppy, and loud, the noise alone in the silent cabin. Tongues and teeth clashed together, and her mouth tasted like pomegranates. It was crude, and intoxicating, and… absolutely ungentlemanlike. And completely too soon. He had only properly met her two weeks ago. Not to mention _he _had initiated the kiss. And... had she started trembling underneath his hands? Oh, Yoba, this was all wrong.__

__Elliott pulled away and took his hands off of her, ignoring the tendrils of need in his heart that wanted to grab onto her and kiss her again, and never stop. A first kiss was supposed to be chaste, and sweet, and… not anything like what had just happened, despite how it had made him feel._ _

__“I… I’m sorry,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I should have stopped myself before I did that.”_ _

__The farmer looked confused, then downright annoyed. She tilted her head and raised her eyebrows, exasperated. "I'm shaking because I'm happy, Elliott." She said his name how one would say 'idiot', but it didn't fail to make his heart jump. She grabbed his tie and lurched him towards her, pulling their mouths together again. The ringing of words in Elliott’s ears stopped once again, blissfully allowing him to simply feel the farmer against him. He appreciated the way she plunged her tongue into his mouth first this time._ _

__Maybe what he had done wasn’t so bad after all._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter will be posted tomorrow. I hope you guys enjoyed this one!
> 
> Also...
> 
> Canon Elliott: I can't play piano that well  
> Me: ...I'm just going to pretend I didn't hear that


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is now wonderful [artwork](https://opal-owl-flight.tumblr.com/post/623051969303609344/inspired-by-the-lovely-snowlandsonbottom-istg) inspired by this fic by the talented [@opal-owl-flight](https://opal-owl-flight.tumblr.com/) on tumblr! Go check it out!

Elliott watched as the ocean breathed, its dark surface rising and falling around his bare ankles. Moonlight jellies, glowing blobs illuminating the water, floated few feet away from the dock he sat on. Similarly glowing fireflies hovered around him, both creatures blotting sparing light in the dark. His feet were dangling in the water, pants rolled up to his knees, but he wasn’t afraid of the cool tide that wafted the jellyfish closer to him. He wasn’t afraid of much anymore.

The farmer was settled on the dock next to him, her head resting on his shoulder, her hand around his arm, and her feet swinging next to his. She smelled like soil and pomegranates. He appreciated the warmth of her body on the chill night. The sharpness in the air reminded Elliott of the changing seasons. It was the last day of Summer, tomorrow the farmer’s crops would die, the colors of leaves would change, but he would still be able to hold the farmer’s hand. She was a new constant in his life.

They had been more or less dating since he had kissed her. He stopped pretending the times they crossed paths were accidents, and so had she. They planned time to meet now, everyday, and he no longer restrained the want to be near her. He grew more accustomed to her company, embracing the way she made him feel and no longer stumbling over his words. It was wonderful. 

The farmer shifted against Elliott. “Why don’t you move onto the farm?” she asked. “I could use the extra help.”

Elliott grinned at the question. She had asked it many times before. “I need to finish my book,” he answered. “You’re quite a distraction.”

The farmer laughed and elbowed him in the ribs, and a comfortable silence fell over them.

Elliott had fallen into a pleasant midpoint with his inspiration. The graying of everything beside her, the spell her presence placed on him when she moved to the valley, had faded. He found his fondness for the color of the sky again, and for the noises from the birds, which sounded less muffled. He drew creativity from them. However, still nothing compared to the liquid, emotional words he felt boiling over in his chest when he looked at the farmer. Thinking of her, their conversations and time spent together, and the gifts she left him were enough to spur on hours of writing. His work was greatly improved with the addition of her in his life. Alas, it would be difficult to get work done if his muse was close enough to kiss all day, and Yoba knows that’s all he’d want to do. One day he'd develop some self restraint.

____

____

As more jellyfish began to swarm to the top the sea, Elliott should have been enthralled, but he was unfocused, thinking about the question the farmer had asked him. His heart had beat a little faster at it than it usually did.

He recalled the night before, when he had been unable to sleep, and decided to walk along the beach. Rain had poured, poisonous looking clouds heavy and low. The air was muggy and thick in his lungs. It made him think of the day he had watched the farmer fish on the dock. The hiss of dark water pummeling the ground sounded different to him now. Peaceful. All encompassing, like the persistent warmth of the sun. It didn't bother him anymore.

An old man Elliott had never seen before was standing on the border between forest and beach. The man beckoned Elliott over. “You’ve got a look of love in yer eyes, lad,” the man said. He offered a pendant to Elliott, for an exorbitant price, but Elliott bought it without hesitation.

The pendant was in a drawer in Elliott’s house now. He knew what it meant, of course, and since then, he’d thought of dozens of ways he’d propose to the farmer. Everything he’d say to her. How wonderful their marriage would be. However, he needed to finish his book. And, he didn't want to overwhelm her, with her first Fall coming up she was sure to have her hands full at the farm. And... a small part of him wanted to drag out the tenderness of their relationship a bit. The proper way. Like in books he’d read.

Elliott took the farmer's hand off of his arm and pressed a kiss into the back of it.

“Someday, though,” Elliott whispered, softly into her skin, too quiet for her to hear. “Someday we’ll live together.”

So what if he’s a romantic? It’s not a terrible thing to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed reading this! It just started out as an excuse for me to use flowery language and an unholy amount of metaphors, but I ended up getting really attached to this fic :P
> 
> Follow me on [tumblr](https://snowlandsonbottom.tumblr.com)!


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